


Untitled

by genee



Category: Popslash
Genre: Gen, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-17
Updated: 2006-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin's home from UNC for the summer and working at his momma's diner, and JC's painting houses on Trace's crew, saving up for something bigger. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rikes](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rikes).



> This is an unfinished WiP. I wrote the last three hundred words or so to fulfill a ficlet request, but now that I'm sure it's always going to be an unfinished WiP, I decided to post all what I have and not just the ficlet-request part. Anyway, I'd planned for this to be a hot Justin/JC summer fling AU, although clearly, it never quite gets there.

You'd spent the last semester, last two semesters, if you were being honest, pretending that blowing out your knee on the road to the Final Four hadn't changed everything, that the surgery and the rehab were worth it, that it didn't matter that you wasn't ever going to play again, not like you used to, anyway, not like you'd always dreamed. You'd been pretending so long that you almost believed it yourself, almost, except you still dreamed basketball, the roar of the crowd and the feel of the full court press, sweaty bodies and the soft woosh of nothing but net. Not every night, thank god, because some nights you dreamt about your physical therapist and some nights you didn't dream at all. Those nights were the best, because you still woke up hard and if you had to be up at the crack of dawn every morning you might as well have some fun, and you did have to be up, not for the classes because you were taking the summer off, but you still had to work.

Two weeks you'd been back, hanging out with Nick and Trace and not thinking about the carefully labeled boxes tucked away in your momma's attic, course work and notebooks and everything else from the year you'd spent refusing to feel sorry for yourself, refusing to do anything but rehab your knee and pursue your degree, not in sports management like everyone expected, but in journalism, because the last good thing you remembered before your growth spurt hit was working on the paper back in high school, back when you were still playing JV ball and wishing you were taller.

Two weeks, and you were settling in again, the little apartment over the diner suited you, and bedsides, you weren't at your best in the mornings and this way you didn't have to commute. Down one flight of stairs and you were at work, coffee brewing and bacon frying and your momma pressing a mug in your hand, kissing your cheek and setting fresh flowers on the tables, getting ready for the breakfast crowd. You ate your cereal and listened to her hum, listened to your step-dad in the kitchen, pots and pans and you took a deep breath and flipped through the local paper, trying not to think about how you would have written the articles, if you were writing articles this summer, which you were not.

You'd had to fight your way on to the _Daily Tar Heel_ staff your first semester as a regular student and not a student athlete, had to negotiate your way off the sports pages with an in-depth behind-the-scenes series that almost killed you, but you'd done it, and you'd done a damn good job of it, too. Working on the paper was everything you thought it would be, but you were happy to be home now, happy to get away for away months and just be who you were without all the pressure - the research and the deadlines and the fucking journalism majors you spent your days with now, wannabe-reporters trying to get under your skin, wanting to know what made the ex-jock with the pencil stuck behind his ear think he could be one of them, be as good as them.

Even now you had a pencil stuck behind your ear, and a couple extras tucked into the apron pocket, too. Apron. Fuck. Your momma kept a stack of them in the back, bright white and starched and you went through three or four a shift, tossing the dirty ones right in the wash and tying a fresh one around your waist every chance you got. You'd worked here every summer since you were a kid and _Lynn's_ still served the best breakfast in town, nine tables and a worn formica counter, Paul at the grill and your momma out front, a smile for everyone who walked through the door. Every summer except last summer, because last summer Coach still thought you might play again, and you'd stayed in Chapel Hill, as committed to your physical therapy as you'd ever been to anything, maybe more, all things considered. Of course, _all things_ included your physical therapist, but you weren't gonna think about Chris now, not with the sun pouring through the front windows and your momma smiling at you, so much pride in her eyes it would have hurt if you didn't know she would always look at you like that, no matter what, just because you were you.

She'd decorated _Lynn's_ with framed newspaper clippings from as far back your grade school talent show, you and your friends dressed up like the New Kids on the Block, singing and smiling and dancing your little butts off. Of course, most of the pictures were of you on the court, a shot of you at the foul line, focused, your lower lip caught in your teeth, another of you hanging from the rim in your Tar Heel blues, older and grinning like a fool, and your favorite, caught mid-air on the turnaround J, head shaved, fingers extended and the ball floating off them, perfect, just like in your dreams. She'd framed a couple of your articles, too, your byline in bold type, and you couldn't help how good it felt, seeing your name in print like that, not like seeing yourself on SportsCenter, but you were getting there, you were close.

That was the sort of bullshit lie you'd been telling yourself all year long, but fuck if it wasn't true this morning, and if you weren't so busy with the breakfast rush you would have called Chris just to tell him that he was right, that you really were more than just your knee, and that you were sorry for being such bitch about the physical therapy, but the last time you tried to apologize he just rolled his eyes and said, "Kid, you and me? We put the therapy in physical therapy," and you _so_ did not want to hear that right now, and besides, you really were busy.

Two weeks, and already you knew what time it was based on who was coming and was going, and right now you knew it was seven-thirty because old Mr. Roberts was just sitting down and JC was leaning on the counter, paint-spattered and beautiful and waiting for Trace to pick him up on their way to wherever they were working today, and god _damn_ , he was gorgeous. Long and lean and yesterday he'd spent twenty minutes scribbling on a napkin that he tucked into his front pocket before you could see what he was writing, and the day before that he'd reached across two places for the sugar, his shirt hitching up and exposing sun-gold skin and the palest little sliver where his jeans slid down on hips. _Fuck_. Trace was so fucking lucky, working with JC every day, and you knew for a fact that he didn't even appreciate it.

The again, Trace was an idiot.

He was your best friend, well him and Nick, but Nick was family so maybe it was him and Lance, because Lance was cool and smart and said things like, "Who'd you blow to get that gig?" when you told him you were writing for the _Daily Tar Heel_ , and then didn't laugh for a full minute when you'd just sighed and said, "Shit, I didn't even offer. You think it would've worked?" But Trace, honestly, Trace was an idiot. Maybe the paint fumes had gotten to him or something because JC was gorgeous and possibly brilliant but Trace just snorted and rolled his eyes whenever you asked about JC, which was crazy, because if you got to spend every day painting houses with JC instead of wearing an apron and taking breakfast orders you'd know _everything_ about him by now, you know you would, and not just because you're a kickass reporter now, either.  
   
   


~.~ 


End file.
